One More Year
by Mr Sinister
Summary: It's Warren Worthington III's birthday, and the team turns out in force to help him celebrate it...


Author's note: Rebecca Braddock is my own character, and is thus the only one I own. Everyone else is Marvel's, so don't sue - I have no money. At all.   
  
This story takes place sometime after my own stories "Growing Pains", "Dear Diary", and "Give Me Shelter", in the same timeline.  
  
Asterisks denote telepathic speech.  
  
One More Year  
  
I'm asleep when it happens.   
Well, more accurately, I'm in between sleep and wakefulness when it happens. My head is still filled with weird dream-images when I feel the kiss touch my lips gently. It tastes of cinnamon and powdered sugar, and its sweetness distracts me for a moment until I hear the voice.  
"Happy birthday, Warren," it says. "How do you feel?"  
"Half-asleep," I reply, blearily, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with the tips of my fingers. "I'd have preferred to stay totally asleep, Betsy - or is that too much to ask?"  
Betsy rolls her eyes and slides back to her side of the bed. "Oh, pish-posh, Warren, I'll not hear of it. Today's your birthday, after all. Wouldn't you like to see what happens?"  
I raise an eyebrow and slip my hand towards her hip underneath the duvet. "I was kind of looking forward to a lie-in, actually, Mrs Worthington. Is that all right with you?"   
Betsy feels my fingers touch her skin, and she smiles like a naughty little girl. "And just what did you have planned, Mr Worthington?"  
My hand finds the spot on her side that is one of her most vulnerable spots. She's hopelessly ticklish there, and as soon as I touch it, she squeals with the knowledge of what I'm going to do. "Oh, I don't know," I say, attacking her with both hands now as she shrieks with laughter and tries to bat my fingers away (admittedly not very successfully, but she does try). "Perhaps this gives you an idea!" Betsy stops trying to push me away and instead finds the base of one of my wings, her long fingers tickling right at the most hard to reach spot on my entire body. The sensation makes me immediately stop what I'm doing and try desperately to scratch the itch I've suddenly developed.  
Seeing me contorting myself in such a way makes Betsy grin, rolling her eyes. "Typical man. As soon as you're uncomfortable, all the fun has to stop. I was enjoying that, you know."  
"I don't doubt it," I say, trying to reach the maddening feeling with at least one finger, "but could you help me out here? I can't reach it and it's driving me crazy." I give her the best pleading look I can manage under the circumstances, and she sighs.  
"All right, Warren, but you have to promise to come downstairs with me, all right?" I nod impatiently, still trying to reach the itch with fingers that are suddenly too short. "Good," she continues. "Now roll over. We'll see if we can't get rid of that itch, shan't we..." She puts a hand at the base of each wing and asks "Now, then - which wing is it?"  
"The right one, Betsy - you know it's the right one. You were there just a moment ago."  
"Just making sure, Warren." Betsy moves her hand towards the itch with almost sadistic slowness. "Am I getting closer?"  
"Nearly - just a little towards the right... there." The sensation of relief is huge, and my muscles start to loosen up almost immediately. Then I feel Betsy's lips on the back of my neck and her hands slip around to my chest.  
*Happy birthday, Warren...*   
  
"Happy birthday, Dad," Rebecca says, handing me a small box wrapped up in bright paper which is decorated with tiny Mickey Mouse designs. I hook a finger into one of the folds and open it. Inside is a small glass statuette of an angel. It occurs to me, suddenly, that it's a statuette of me. I'm dressed in a replica of my blue and white Angel costume, my wings spread above my head and my hands held out to either side of me. Even though it's only about the size of my palm, there's so much detail carved into the glass that it seems impossible.   
"Thank you, Rebecca. This is... beautiful," I say, softly. She grins, and blushes.  
"I thought you'd like it," she says. "I made it myself. You know that little shop down in Salem Centre? I asked them to teach me how to do what they do, and they've been showing me on weekends. It's been fun." She grins. "I'm glad it paid off." I kiss her on the forehead and thank her again, until Scott pushes a long box into my hands.  
"This is from Jean and me," he says. I slip the lid off and take out a oak cane, which is marked with a monogrammed image of the Worthington family crest on the top of the rounded handle. Scott smiles. "We thought you'd need it since you're an old man now."  
"Come here and say that, Summers," I say, folding my hands across my chest, " and I'll teach you who's the old man." Scott raises an eyebrow.  
"How? Are you going to bore me to death by telling me how it used to be in the old days?" He laughs. "Should I call Medicare for you?"  
"Don't push it, Scooter," I say. "You're no spring chicken yourself." I grab his hand and embrace him for a moment. "Thanks, man. I appreciate it."  
"My pleasure, Warren," Scott replies. "Our pleasure." Jean smiles and kisses me softly on the cheek..  
"Yes - our pleasure," she repeats. "Of course, I wanted to get you tickets for Slayer or Nine Inch Nails, but Scott thought your ears might give out."  
"Probably for the best, then," I say, with a shrug. "I was hoping for Willie Nelson or Dolly Parton instead. Modern music is so... _loud._" I glance at Rebecca, who is struggling to hide a snigger behind her hand. "How you kids can listen to all that modern crap is beyond me. Why, back in the good old days..." I throw my hands up melodramatically, as if I'm about to embark on some lengthy, tedious monologue. Fortunately, my wife interrupts before I make more of a fool of myself.  
"Yes, dear," she says. "Why don't you open Logan's present before you say anything else, and then the two of you can go and discuss what it was you did during the war. How does that sound?"  
The squat Canadian man presses another long box into my hands. "Enjoy it, kid." I open it and find myself looking at a polished hunting bow. Logan grins at my puzzled expression. "Don't worry, Wings - I ain't expectin' you to go out and start shootin' arrows at anythin' that moves. I thought it'd look good over your fireplace, that's all. Maybe it'd get those hormones flowin' for the first time in your life, I dunno." He winks at Betsy. "Ya never know, boy - someone might appreciate it."  
"Ha, ha, Logan," I say sourly. "You're a regular laugh riot. I don't know how we ever cope without you." My expression changes to one of gratitude, and I heft the bow with my left hand and clap Logan on the shoulder with the other. "Thank you. I appreciate this. I really do." Logan's rough face splits into a wide grin, and his eyes glitter with the early morning light.  
"Pleased to hear it, Wings. It was nothin', really. I'm glad ya like it."  
  
It takes a while for the rest of the team to give me their presents, but eventually they all do so, and all of us move into the drawing room, where I find Rogue has prepared me a cake with my age in icing on the top of it, alongside a picture of Betsy and me.   
"You want us to wear asbestos when you light those candles, Dad?" Rebecca says. "I don't want to get sunburnt, you know." I roll my eyes.  
"Good God, Rebecca, I'm only twenty-seven! That's not _that_ old, you know." She smiles, and shrugs.  
"Isn't this what I'm _supposed_ to do? I don't exactly have a manual for this kind of thing."  
"I'd prefer it if you didn't, Rebecca, but I guess I can forgive you. This once."  
Jean laughs. "Perhaps she'd be more willing to listen to you if you let her borrow your Porsche? That's what I did with Rachel, after all." She laughs at my horrified expression, and her smile widens even further. I can feel my blood pressure rising with every breath I take.  
"That's a blatant lie and you know it, Jean. You never did that," I say, and jab a finger at Rebecca. "And before you ask - no, Rebecca, you can't take the car out yet. Just because Jean's your aunt doesn't mean she can rig that for you. Betsy, back me up here." To my horror, she stands back and folds her arms, an evil look crossing her face.  
"Oh, no, Warren, I think this is something you should deal with on your own."  
"Come on, Betts, it's my birthday..." I'm hoping that my tone of voice will change her mind, and my gamble pays off. Betsy sighs and steps towards the cake, lighting each candle with a match.   
"There you go, sweetheart. On the count of three..."   
The whole group counts up slowly and I manage to blow out the candles in only two tries.   
Three tries.  
I guess I'm older than I thought...  
  
The party down at Harry's that evening gets raucous pretty quickly - Remy is dancing like Patrick Swayze with kinetic energy powers, and doing so with any woman that dares come within ten feet of him, Bobby is icing up drinks left and right like a living Mr Frosty, and Hank is doing handstands on a table while juggling beer glasses with his feet. It's quite a sight - and I love every minute of it; after all, these are my best friends, and I wouldn't change them for the world. Betsy sips champagne and sits with her hand in mine, watching the others make fools of themselves with a slightly detached mindset, but with a twinkle in her eye that lets me know that she's enjoying herself. She grips my arm suddenly and points towards the dance floor, where Jean (who looks slightly tipsy, but is still keeping herself fairly vertical) is beckoning to me. I think she wants me to dance, but I'm a little hesitant. After all, I have two left feet - and two particularly uncooperative left feet, at that.   
"I think you have a secret admirer, Warren," Betsy says, drawing herself right up close to me, her tongue delicately tracing the edge of my left ear (She could have spoken telepathically, I guess, but I think she just wanted to send me some conflicting signals. She does that sometimes when we've both drunk just a little too much. Not that I'm complaining, but...). "Why don't you go and introduce yourself?"  
"Because I want to stay here with you?"  
"Good answer," Betsy says, in an approving tone. "Don't be silly, Warren, I'll still be here when you get back. Now go and dance with Jean. Or I'll elope with the bartender." She chuckles as I heave myself out of my seat, taking care to set my empty glass down on the table so that it won't get easily knocked off, and walk a little _too_ carefully over to where Jean is standing. I really _shouldn't_ have had that last Miller's...  
"Want a dance, Warren?" Jean says, holding out her hands.  
"Why not?" I reply. "And anyway, if I don't, Betsy's going to run off with the bartender."  
"Ooh, blackmail," Jean coos, and I catch the faint scent of peach schnapps on her breath. "Betsy's really learning what the advantages of being a wife can be."  
"Is that right?" I raise an eyebrow, just as the music on the jukebox changes to Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight".  
"Oh, absolutely," Jean whispers as we dance cheek-to-cheek, slowly moving to the music's soft rhythm. "She's got you wrapped around her little finger, birthday boy, and you don't even know it yet."  
"I... see," I say. "Mind telling me how I can unwind myself?"  
"Impossible, Warren," Jean laughs. "Not going to happen."  
"Gee. Thanks for telling me, Jean - now I feel a _whole_ lot better."  
Jean pecks me on the cheek with her full, soft lips. "It's not all bad, Warren. Think of it as pluses and minuses - I bet you could find enough to make up for that, if you really tried."  
"I probably could, but it still doesn't make it sound any better."  
"I'm sure you didn't say that on your wedding night," Jean says, a wicked glint in her eye.  
I give her my best shocked look. "Why, Mrs Summers, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't been here to hear you say it." Jean shrugs.  
"Oh, come on, Warren, don't be such a prude."  
"_Me?_ Me, a prude?" My look (and feeling) of disbelief must be amusing, because Jean giggles loudly. "Me, the millionaire playboy? You're serious about that?"  
"Totally," Jean says, stifling further laughter. "You can admit you and Betsy have had sex, you know. It's what married couples tend to do, after all."  
"Yeah, but... I just don't want other people to _know_ about it, that's all."  
"And why is that?" Jean's smile has straightened out and she looks a little more serious. I'm not sure I like where this is going, but I stick around anyway. "You certainly weren't shy about letting us know about how good your sex life was with Candy and Charlotte, after all." That gives me pause to think.   
"I don't know... it's just... different, I guess. We've both got wedding rings on our fingers now, after all. It's just easier for a bachelor to go around bragging about how good he is in the sack - it's a _lot_ different if you have to face the person you were with across the breakfast table the morning after, you know?"  
Jean smiles again, wistfully, and nods. "Yes, Warren, I know." She brings up her left hand, and the ring on her finger gleams in the light. "It makes a world of difference, doesn't it?" She kisses me on the cheek, and the scent of peach schnapps wafts over me again. "I'm glad you've changed for the better, Warren. You were a real goober sometimes when we were kids, but you've become quite the gentleman. It suits you."  
"Hey, I had to be me!" I shrug, trying my best to look philosophical. "I'm just too cute to change otherwise." Jean rolls her eyes.  
"You're drunk, Warren."  
"So are you, Jean."  
Jean raises an eyebrow. "I am _not_ drunk! I haven't had more than two glasses of schnapps since I've been here. I can't be drunk. If I were, you'd know about it."  
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Hank chimes in, handing Jean a fresh glass of liquor. "Perhaps you ought to prove it to us, oh she-whose-status-is-disputed?"  
"All right, boys, maybe I will." Jean takes the glass and begins to drink its contents. And she doesn't stop until the glass is empty. Gasping for breath, she gives the glass back to a (for once) speechless Hank. "Satisfied?"  
"Indubitably." Hank blinks in disbelief. "I don't believe you just did that, Jean." She grins.  
"It's a party, Hank.If I can't do that here, then where _can_ I do it?"  
"To quote some slightly lesser poets: true, true." Hank smiles. "Another?"  
"Oh, you bet, furball," Jean grins. "My vision hasn't even started to blur yet. The night's still young, and I feel like celebrating. Are you going to join me, Warren? It is your party, after all."  
"Mrs Summers, it would be my pleasure..."  
  
"You're going to regret this in the morning, sweetheart," Betsy says gently, as she help me to sit on our bed. "Do you want me to get some aspirin now, so you don't have to endure the hangover tomorrow?"  
"I'll be all right, Betsy. It was a... good party, wasn't it?" My voice is a little slurred, but nothing I can't handle. I can still make myself understood, which is the main thing, I guess.  
"Yes, Warren, it was a good party. I had a lot of fun - I think the high point of the evening was seeing Jean dancing the macarena on a table, don't you?"  
"Maybe it was," I say, my mind filling with a vivid image, thanks to Betsy's telepathy. "I still think she ought to have kept her clothes on, though."  
"Oh, nonsense, Warren." Betsy grins. "I have polaroids to torture her with for months on end now. She'll regret wearing that black lace bra and panties for the rest of her life. And in any case, it was a party. Let her enjoy herself for now. I'll have my fun later." She laughs wickedly, and then shifts herself closer to me. "Now, then, sweetheart. I haven't given you my present yet - I wanted it to be just between us." She reaches under our bed and fishes out a small box. "Here you are, sweetheart. Happy birthday." She holds out the box, and I open it expectantly.  
Inside, there is a small glass statuette in the shape of a butterfly, which has been filled with differently-coloured sands in consecutive layers. Underneath it, there is a small note. It reads:  
  
Warren,  
You mean the world to me, and since Rebecca made you something, I wasn't going to be outdone. I wanted to give you something as unique, and personal, as she did - I hope this fits the bill, and shows you how much I care about you. I love you so much, my darling - I'll always love you. No matter how old and crotchety you get!   
  
All my love, always,  
Betsy.  
  
"Well?" she asks, hesitantly. "Do you like it?"  
"Very much." I pause for a moment, as if I'm searching for the right thing to say, but all that comes out of my mouth in the end is "Thank you."  
Betsy smiles, and gently kisses me. The delicate, understated fragrance of her makes my slightly drunken head spin. "I'm glad you like it, Warren. Happy birthday." She pauses. "Now let's get to bed before those hangovers catch up with us..."  
  



End file.
